A Dove Among Hawks

By C. Edward Samuels

DOVE "Paloma, in Spanish; A Bird - A gentle woman - advocate
of compromise - compare to the hawk"
HAWK "A Bird; the Falcon family - a hunter- advocates immediate
vigorous, and aggressive action - compare to the dove"
Merriam Webster

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 7, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462840335

C. Edward Samuels

C. Edward Samuels: FACTION: Fiction wrapped in fact. Fact: Evil exists on planet Earth and must be constantly fought. Fiction: We can fight it alone! All of us are fighters, but we often need someone in our corner. The author is a veteran of over thirty years in this struggle. Special Agent, Military Intelligence; Police Detective; Protective Service Team Supervisor and Federal Police Chief all can be found in his resume. Polygraph Examiner; PADI Master SCUBA Instructor and Secret Service certified Small Arms Instructor adds method to his madness - Vietnam Vet adds a degree of madness to his method. A formal education to the PhD Candidate level contributes less to his legitimacy than does his life experience. “My stories are intended to be an entertaining way of facing some of the shocking actualities of life on this third rock from the sun. I write about real good guys and gals: exemplary crime fighters that I have known. These are my heroes. I do not use their actual names simply because not one of them wants notoriety. ” Expect some coarse language, some base street humor, and both liberal and conservative viewpoints on many topics. “I have not attempted to create the great American novel. My stories are meant to entertain, while stirring reminders of duties intrinsic in this life –responsibility for your actions; give more than you take, live, laugh, love your heart out! C. Edward Samuels

Book preview

Another Day At The Office

1964

There are no extraordinary men . . . just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to deal with.

William ‘Bull’ Halsey

Sunday, 14:05 hrs. Hey! Midday sunshine turned the droplets of Caribbean saltwater into shimmering sequins against the stark black wetsuit of a perfectly-tanned, firm-jawed young man. You did good back there. He pointed over one muscular shoulder to the beach, now being swallowed in white-capped, foamy splendor by the changing tide. The warm salt water rushed up to meet dark, sheer cliffs on the southeast coast of the island nation of Cuba.

He got a nod from the other man, who is even younger, and also tanned. Just a nod! It caused identical little droplets of shiny moisture to fall from the same kind of clothing, and from short, dark brown locks of hair.

I don’t even know your last name and yet, you saved my life just now. The first man said.

Commander, if you’re saying thanks, you’re welcome. I just happened to be in the neighborhood. My name is Keith, by the way.

Lieutenant commander Logan knows the young sailor’s name is Keith. He’s known it for months, even before they met. But if Keith wants to keep it to first-name only; good for him.

Two young men; one 28, the other 19; each with his own thoughts, all filled with relief at the moment.

Twenty-eight years ago, Joshua and Melinda Logan gave birth to little Joshua Jr. It was a proud day for mom & dad, and the very first day in the life of a future United States Navy SEAL.

Some eighteen years before today, a child was born in Falling Springs, Illinois, to parents who divorced a couple of years later. Little Keith Gordon Roberts, the youngest of four children, was raised by an older German Catholic couple who lived nearby. His future fame is manifested only in his efforts to be a gentleman, and a gentle man, doesn’t matter if he often failed in pursuit of that goal.

Both men are sitting on the deck of the U.S. Submarine, Amberjack SS-522. Two sets of Twin 90s, and one set of Twin 50 SCUBA tanks are next to them; double hose regulators are still attached to each rig.

Josh. The SEAL identifies himself with a thumbs-up gesture. First names will do just fine. Lieutenant Commander (LCDR) Logan thinks that Keith is enlisted. In fact, the world is supposed to believe that Keith enlisted. On any other day, under any other circumstance, he would have demanded the required protocol between officer and enlisted. This is not any other day, not any other circumstance. He does not know that somewhere in the Pentagon, a Department of The Navy (DON) safe holds top secret documents confirming a lieutenant junior grade (LTJG) commission for one Keith Gordon Roberts: This ‘Keith’ who had just saved his life. He doesn’t know about the safe somewhere in the 4th floor, ‘E’ Ring, between corridors 7 & 6, in a little-known vault hidden behind the model planes and ships. Precious few know about it. It is a high priority Special Compartmented Information (SCI) vault, which requires multiple combinations to open.

Sunday, 09:30 hrs. Three people carefully slide down the Port side of the submarine into the warm Caribbean water, where it mingles with the Atlantic, on the south eastern tip of Cuba. Two of them are men, quietly closing the quick release buckles of the backpacks containing the heavy sets of compressed air tanks. The third, a young woman, assisted by the younger of the two men, dons a civilian configuration of the same equipment. Her tanks are lighter, and much easier to handle. Their black, nylon, neoprene wetsuits blend with the gray of the Amberjack. Strange-looking, pale blue, 3 feet long, bullet-shaped, machines with propellers shrouded on the rear end, are gently lowered down to the side for the three by two curious, but silent crew members.

Sunday, 09:33 hrs. The boat’s 1-MC public address system bellows, Attention all hands! attention all hands! Underway watch section. Man your duty station; all non-watch standers—Swim Call. I say again. Swim Call. Ship Swimmers to your stations. Uniform of the day, jocks & socks. About thirty seconds after this was broadcast, the following was heard, Belay my last. Belay my last. In consideration of our lady guest, uniform of the day for swimmers is appropriate swimming attire.

Damn it, lieutenant! If I wanted the whole fuckin’ island to know we had a female guest onboard, I’d have her up here on deck in a bikini! The captain is pissed! Commander (CDR) Tully’s abbreviated tirade is directed to his executive officer (X-O), not on the young Boson’s mate, guilty of the indiscretion. A good senior officer would never reprimand an enlisted man in front of other enlisted men. He would chew out a junior officer, who in turn, would spit venom at the poor deck ape.

The second in command of the Amberjack for this last minute, unscheduled, and unappreciated cruise from Charleston, is Lt. Harold Gimbal. Lt. Gimbal was substituted at the last minute for the regular X-O, LCDR John T. George. This happened in spite of CDR Tully’s strong objections. No adequate reason had been offered, just a presentation of sealed orders marked "Eyes Only—B.J. Tully, CDR, USN; Captain—U.S. Submarine Amberjack—SS 522." Tully’s objections were shortlived. The orders were signed by the Chief of Naval Operations himself. Lt. Gimbal proved himself a rookie submariner, but seemed to be familiar with the three guests onboard.

The guests are, in order of significance, a gorgeous 18-year-old Hispanic girl named Paloma, a Navy SEAL named Josh, and Keith, a 19-year-old navy seaman/sonar striker. No one onboard the Sub, except LT. Gimbal, understood the significance of this combination, and he offered no explanation.

Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus (SCUBA) came with the unlikely trio. Three gadgets, not so common, had been loaded onboard during a short stop alongside the USS Bushnell, sub-tender for Submarine Squadron 12 (Sub Ron 12) in Key West. These were experimental Personal Transfer Vehicles (PTV). Not the more familiar two-person PTV (wet-sub) used by the Underwater Demolition Teams (UDT), and the relatively new Sea-Air-& Land (SEAL) Teams, but what divers call Underwater Water Scooters. Designed for individual use, the battery-operated, propeller-driven, machines are controlled from the handles built into the rear. The screw (propeller) is shrouded to protect the operator, and to direct turbulence away from the swimmer’s face. The scooters saved many a leg, from many a Charlie horse. They virtually replace the kick, one of the most tiring things required in underwater travel.

As happy, boisterous sailors slid, jumped, and dived into the water with the grace and ease of crippled elephants, the three mysterious passengers slipped quietly beneath the gentle morning waves. The more noise, the better. Swim call on this day had been timed to offer a distraction to any possible observer; Thus hopefully, allowing the ‘guests’ to depart unnoticed.

Sunday, 10:19 hrs. The underwater swim to the big rock from the Amberjack was uneventful. Thanks to the scooters, the three-fourth miles from the surfaced submarine to the target area took only about 20 minutes. Our route allowed us to travel at a depth of about 25 to 30 feet. At that depth, the ambient pressure on our bodies was less than two atmospheres absolute, or under 29.4 pounds per square inch (PSI). Once we cleared our ears by equalizing the pressure on both sides of the tympanic membrane, the trip became almost relaxing, and ever so scenic. We started our trip with about 65 feet of crystal-clear water below us. With almost unlimited visibility, we witnessed a busy world of multi-colored Stag Horn Coral, bright white Brain Coral, and living sponges, from tan to pink. A kaleidoscopic carnival of large and lazy Angel Fish, fast-darting Parrot Fish, sluggish Monk Fish, and the occasional blinding flash of a curious Barracuda was constantly performing underneath. The closer we got to the shore, the murkier the water became. The surge stirred the sand, and even though colors continually became brighter, overall visibility decreased. Even so, occasional rainbows from sunlight reflecting off broken conch shells strewn across the bottom caught our attention.

I held tightly to Paloma with my left hand, and to the ocean-facing side of a large, barnacle-covered rock with my right. We had left our SCUBA gear at the bottom, and were clinging to the part of the rock that was above water. Josh was about 8 feet below us, struggling against the surge to tie up our diving equipment underwater, and out of sight. In short while, his head appeared right beside us. A few seconds later, he said, I’ll work my way around towards the other side of this boulder so I can see the beach. When I signal, you two do your thing. Good luck young lady! He did not wait for a response. As he moved around the rock, I carefully repositioned Paloma and myself, so as to keep him in sight.

Between our little pillar of stone and the narrow, rock-strewn sandy beach was about fifty yards of 3-6 foot breakers. Closing in, the white chop turned brown as it stirred the sandy bottom. This swim ashore will be rough! I shouted into Paloma’s ear over the cacophonous pounding surf. When a wave takes you, just ride it out, save your strength. When it comes back, swim like hell for the shore until the next one comes in behind you!

Paloma’s big brown eyes reflected concern and excitement in equal portions. She nodded with that ‘no problem’ conviction of youth. What her life will be like after this swim is foremost on her mind right now: that she is about to say goodbye to Keith forever. She pulled herself closer to me for an instant. A palpable shiver made an indelible impression on my very soul.

Sunday, 10:26 hrs. Josh’s right hand pointed towards the beach. Go, Paloma—I’ll be right behind you! I shouted. The petite but very athletic, young woman swam like an Olympian towards her first ever time on the soil of her ancestors. She did as I had told her just now, and during the so many practice sessions in identical conditions off of Florida beaches. Her 104 lb. body surfed on each wave until the white water turned to blue-brown. Then she floated patiently, waiting for the next wall of water to pick her up from behind, and carry her ever closer to a standing depth. As promised, I am within arm’s reach every stroke of the way.

Funny, how the mind could ignore anticipated unpleasant events. Perhaps a form of Anna Freud’s ‘suppression theory?’ A defense mechanism? Maybe? Maybe not! As I saw Paloma standing; running now instead of swimming, it hit me like the stab of a white-hot knife: in a very few minutes, if all went as planned, we would say goodbye—forever! I would soon turn her care over to strangers. Somewhere in the thick coastal forest separated only from the ocean by the sandy, rocky beach, ‘Students For Democracy’ are hiding; waiting for this lovely present.

My SCUBA student, almost a constant companion for the last few weeks, and yes, a friend, would soon begin a new life; a life without me. Having no idea why our government was sending her here, why she agreed to come, what on earth she was being asked to do, did nothing to soften the blow! Paloma, much to her credit, never once compromised her mission by telling me anything. Until this very moment, I never really thought to ask.

Ah, but the resilience of youth! I was a soldier. Mine was not to question why. "No personal attachments are tolerated. Turn off your humanity, some clown called ‘Alpha’ told me back at some training facility, somewhere in Virginia. OK—goodbye; good luck; keep your head down & your powder dry! Bullshit! This goodbye is going to hurt—any way you cut it!" I said only in my mind, but I could have sworn, I also shouted it.

As practiced, we both fell flat on our stomachs in the lighter surf farther up the beach. I looked to my left, then to my right. Seeing nothing but sand and seagulls, I got up, grabbed Paloma’s hand and began our sprint towards the woods. Once hidden among the myriad of tropical trees and shrubs, we stood still hand in hand for whatever reason, and waited for our breath to return. Before having to make the difficult decision about the hand-holding, a whistle or more of a high-pitched whisper, done three in a row, came from close behind us. Paloma turned to see where it was from. I did not. My instructions clearly stated that I was not to turn to look. "Dove and Hawk?" a female voice asked quietly. Again, I did not turn around, nor did I respond to the question. Hell, I didn’t even understand the question! No one bothered to tell me that Paloma is the ‘Dove’ and who is this ‘Hawk?’ Are you shitin me!? I saw Paloma nod her head in affirmation, and ten or so people materialized mystically from the jungle. "Hope to hell these are good guys!" My mind raced. All I have is a little German-made .380mm PPK with a silencer on it, which by the way, I had not yet taken from its plastic wrapper. But wait, who was I kidding? If these were not friendly folks, we’d be buzzard bait right now! I suddenly wondered if Cuba had buzzards!

No ceremony was involved in this business. The female, maybe about 25 years old, dirty but pretty, stepped closer to me. The military fatigue get-up did little to stir my testosterone. She held out her left hand, her right was armed with an ugly AK47. Damn, I thought, she’s going to whip my skinny ass right here in front of God and everybody! She didn’t. I unzipped my wetsuit top and retrieved the other plastic-wrapped object I had with me. I opened it, took out the envelope and handed it to her. Without so much as a thank you or have a nice day or stuff it, Gringo!, nothing, she turned, took Paloma by the arm and walked away. After about three steps, Paloma pulled away from her, turned, and ran to me. She threw her arms around me and held on tightly. I returned the hug without hesitation. Ten seconds later, she looked up at me with those big, bottomless brown pools of wonder, now filling with tears and said, "Goodbye Keith. Tell Mr. Gimbal that the Dove is with the Hawks."

As suddenly as they had appeared, they disappeared. So there I was; standing in a mini-tropical forest on the southeastern coast of a communist country that don’t much like me, or anything I stand for. The rest of my day looked like hell: running across the sand; swimming against the tides; enduring the saltwater sting on my eyes brought on by finding my gear underwater without a mask, and dragging Paloma’s set of twin 50s half a mile back to the submarine. Quit your bitchin’, you bitchy little bastard! All in a day’s work, right?

I had weaved my way through five or six palm trees of some kind, when my ass puckered up tightly. Voices! Spanish-speaking voices from not far in front of me, This is not good! I oversimplified. Where were the instructions for this? Actually, I had been trained extensively for just this: ‘Just this’ being: be still, very still; quiet, very quiet. Not all that hard to do really not when fear has your bowels right on the verge of release, not when holding your breath is causing near-hypoxia to your entire system!

Well at least one question was answered at long last: Why I had been sent to the Presidio for a mock POW training. Oh Shit! Don’t start that crap. They don’t have you yet!" More of that Freudian garbage—denial.

As the voices became increasingly distant, my breath came in increasing pants. I slowly and carefully put one foot gently in front of the other, down onto the plush flora & fauna. I sighted the beach, in what seemed to me about a day or so but was realistically just about three minutes. There it is, my rock! Damn! Who moved it so far away?! Where is that SEAL, the Elite of the Elite? Why didn’t I bring a Browning Automatic Riffle (B.A.R.) instead of this Walther? Why had I not joined a damn rock & roll band instead of this beachcomber act? Why don’t I knock off the pity party, and figure a way out of this mess? Astute questions, don’t you think?

By now, it was almost 11:00. I and Mr. Logan are expected back at the Sub for lunch. God, how I hate to be late when so graciously invited! And, I’m already dressed in formal black! Where is that SEAL? The good LCDR was nowhere to be seen, not such a bad idea, really, not being seen. However, the bodies that hold those Spanish-speaking voices are easily seen. As if a testimony to my recent luck, the men started setting up camp, about 50 yards to my right. By a quick count, eight ragged, dirty, bearded, shabbily-uniformed, but well-armed obstructions to my return to sanity were gathering driftwood for a fire on the beach. Yep, a beach party! Oh right! I’m up for a good BBQ!

It occurred to me that this would be a good time to unwrap that little peashooter they gave me back in Virginia. Obviously, my PPK is not much of a deterrent against a group of what appeared to be seasoned guerilla jungle-fighters; but strangely, holding it gave a boost to my rapidly deteriorating machismo. I had, after all, put close to a thousand rounds through her during practice. Even with the jury-rigged silencer, I wasn’t all that bad a shot with it.

I wasn’t all that bad a shot, period. My dad taught me to ‘bark’ squirrels when I was a kid on our 40-acre land in the Missouri Ozarks. Thank you Dad. If you shoot a squirrel while it’s in a tree, you usually cause the bullet to go all the way through the body because you are shooting from the ground upwards, not from the side of the critter. This tears up the meat pretty badly. So hillbillies learn to aim their .22 long rifle hollow points at a piece of bark close to the animal’s head. If all goes well, the hollow end of the lead spreads out when it hits the bark. The bark flies up and knocks the squirrel out, saving the destruction of your dinner. Don’t believe it? Hey, one didn’t ask you to! Squirrel, by the way, is one hell of a fine dinner!

Just as my courage began to ebb, it began to flow in again. Not thirty feet in front of me—between me and the lost brigade on the beach—was my hero, the SEAL. On his belly, well-camouflaged with a covering of large leaves, I would never have seen him if not for a slight glint of sunlight against the blue steel barrel of his Uzi¹ Submachine gun. Cut down from the standard 16 inches, only about two inches of the barrel remained; but it was long enough to catch my eye. Now that little friend could do some damage. Those 9 x19mm Parabellums could come out of there at a rate of 600 per minute and travel at 1,312 feet per second! Hamburger makers!

At first, I thought Oh no, they can see the Amberjack floating out there! Then I remembered, much to my relief, she is in a much used seaway into Guantanamo Bay. If they could see her, they could also see the recreational activity going on. All a pretty common sight around here.

The good news: my partner, the Naval Special Warfare expert had come ashore and destroyed the footprints I and Paloma left. The bad news is that these pesky little devils with their pesky big Kalashnikovs, have decided to stay to make sure that no one comes ashore from that Sub out there. Fortunately, they did not know what I just did, or that I was, in fact, finished doing it.

Not a seasoned Special Ops type, I could only surmise our predicament. This operation is so covert that we did not even bring any communications equipment. Some crap about transmissions being intercepted by enemy combatants? Anyway, we also had no back-up. No ‘Black Ops Team’ waited to Hollywood their way in here, with guns ablaze and K-Bars clenched in their teeth, to save the day! No, hell no! That would cause an international incident! Nope! Just I and my PPK, and one SEAL with his Uzi and two 25—round magazines!"

Not to worry… but as I was about to settle down for a long, hungry, and bug-slapping afternoon, things went critical. Only Divine Providence made me look to my right when I did. One of the not too pretty, but apparently pretty damned good guerillas had flanked the group. In doing so, he had also seen my hero down there under the leaves. From beside a palm tree off to my right, he was stealthily lining up a 50-foot shot at LCDR Logan. From his angle, he could see more than just the tip of the Uzi barrel.

No rational gunman will ever explain how in the world I shot that little bastard right in the neck with a silenced .380 from my hiding place, approximately 35 foot away, but I did. Any rational ‘hillbilly’ could explain it though, Damn, I love fried squirrel! Good thing it hit him in the throat too. That stopped the scream! He dropped his Russian-supplied rifle, grabbed his throat, and crumpled down to meet his maker. My first kill! I thought it would upset me more.

The unceremonious crash of the fallen Cuban was not heard in the camp on the beach. It was, however, a stark reminder to LCDR Logan that even a Navy SEAL could suffer occasional vulnerability. He didn’t know what caused the man to fall over dead but a quick Hail Mary, I’ll bet you, heralded his gratitude. Having rolled a little onto his left side to check out the noise, he looked behind him. I stepped partially out from behind the palm tree and saluted with my left hand, and waved my little German friend with my right, wise ass punk that I am! I’m only guessing, but he never held it against me.

So, we can only hope the little army by the campfire don’t notice their compadre gone for a while. Logan managed to scoot himself silently backwards to my hiding spot. Together, we did the stager routine to the fallen man. Josh watched while I crawled. I watched while he crawled. We stripped the unfortunate fellow of